


The Last Drakkon

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Space, Awesome Clint Barton, Biting, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Danger Kink, Dragon Bucky Barnes, Dragons, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Interspecies Relationship(s), Light Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, SILAS the sassy computer, Space smuggler Clint Barton, Spaceships, drakkons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: He stops as a massive shape comes rearing up from the cliff’s edge, almost twice the size ofThe Avenger, red and shimmery and brilliant. It lands with a thud on the clifftop, hard enough to shake the entire thing and knock Clint on his ass. He barely even notices; he’s too busy staring at the giant red creature perched in front of him. It stares back, blinking slowly.“Holy stars,” Clint says, staring at him, suddenly remembering the stories he used to read as a kid. “You’re adrakkon?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 38
Kudos: 221
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020, Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	The Last Drakkon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> For hawksonfire, who wanted dragons and danger and buttons popping off. Happy birthday, dearest Arson. May your day be full of fun and chaos!
> 
> Filling my AU: dragon rider square for BBB, and my Biting square for WHB.

Clint doesn’t _mean_ to crash land into a mythical creature’s home planet. It just kind of...happens.

Which is the story of his life, really. Clint never _means_ for things to happen. They just do. Every damn day, it feels like. The universe must enjoy watching him suffer. That’s got to be the only explanation.

The day starts out like most of the others. Clint wakes up late, nursing one hell of a hangover. He’d been celebrating the end of a particularly long and nasty job, one where he’d done too much and gotten paid too little. Still, it had been enough for him to pay the docking fees at a local station, pick up some fuel, and have a drink at the bar. Except he’d met somebody, and one drink had turned into two, then three, and well—

Long story short, he now finds himself in the overly-warm, four-armed embrace of a Meamata. Normally he’d be content to stay—sleep in a little bit, maybe have a little morning sex—but it’s probably best that he clears out soon. This station is relatively new, but it’s a little closer to the Vex system than he’d like to be. Closer than is really safe for him. He’s not exactly a well-known smuggler, but there’s a price on his head now, and wandering within arm’s reach of the intergalactic police is _not_ the smartest move he’s made recently.

Still. He goes where the money is. And if that means risking getting arrested, well...there’s a reason he’s a smuggler and not a ship tech or something. He likes a little danger. Adds flavor to things.

But there’s no point in being stupid, so he just carefully extracts himself from all four arms and gets up. His clothes are around here somewhere—he vaguely remembers tossing his shirt in the sitting room, and his pants are over on a chair in the corner, and where the hell are his shoes—

“Going somewhere?”

Clint glances over to the bed, offering a sheepish smile. “Hey,” he says, trying to remember the alien’s name. It started with a G. Gata, maybe? “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Gata says something in a guttural voice, and Clint scowls, reaching up to tap at his ear. His translator’s on the fritz again, he’s gonna have to get a new one.

_Should’ve spent money on that instead of drinks_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t really regret his decision. He’d never slept with a Meamata before, and he generally tries to collect as many interesting sexual experiences as he can. The double-dick thing was...odd, but Clint’s down to try just about anything, and he can’t deny that Gata blew his mind more than once last night.

His translator kicks back in just in time for him to hear “—to get breakfast.”

“Sorry,” he says again. “I only paid for twenty-four hours. I gotta get back to my ship before they tow it.”

Gata tilts their head, slitted pupils rimmed in brilliant green. “Oh,” they say, sounding disappointed.

“You were good, though,” Clint says, then wants to smack himself in the head. _Dumbass things to say after sex, featuring Clint Barton._ “Seriously. I had a great time. If I’m back this side of the system again, I’ll definitely give you a comm.”

“I would like that,” Gata says, leaning over the side of the bed. They dig around for a moment, then toss something his direction. One of his shoes. “Other one’s by the door.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, snagging his shirt from the lounge. “Sorry about your wall, by the way.”

Gata glances at the hole just above the bed. “No worries. Is your hand okay?”

“I’ve punched worse things than a wall, and for worse reasons.” Clint drags his clothes back on, then buckles his leg holster into place. “Where’s my gun?”

“Think you left it in the sitting room,” Gata says, slowly getting out of bed. They stretch, limbs stretching languidly, blue skin reflecting in the lamplight. There’s a couple dark bruises around their neck, bruises that Clint remembers leaving, and he shivers a little at the thought. Maybe he could stay for just a little longer, see if he can get Gata to do that purring thing again—

_Think with the big head, Barton,_ he tells himself, and sighs. He fetches his blaster from the sitting room, along with his jacket, and runs a hand through his unruly hair. “Well. I gotta run.”

“Nice meeting you,” Gata says, shuffling over towards the bathroom. “Have fun with your...” They trail off, two arms waving awkwardly. “Whatever it is you do.”

“Acquisitions,” Clint says with a grin, and lets himself out. It’s not technically lying. He does acquire things. Just not always legally.

The space station is quieter than he’d expected. It’s a new one, he knows, more automated than the others, but it’s still unnerving to walk around and not see techs scurrying around to keep things running.

He retraces his half-remembered steps from last night, going back down three levels to the bar, and nods at the bartender as he goes past. She’s a pretty thing, coal-black skin inlaid with gorgeous shimmery gold patterns, and a wicked smile to match her sultry voice. Clint had been flirting hard with her last night until Gata showed up. He still wants to take her to bed; he’s never slept with an Uliuli either, although he’s been to their planet a couple times.

“Big head,” he mutters, and keeps walking. He’s surprised she’s still working, although he knows Uliuli don’t sleep as much as humans do. Her shift probably doesn’t end for another few hours.

Clint finds the docking ports and knocks at the guardhouse window, startling awake the guy inside. “Hey,” he says. “I’m leaving. I need my ship.”

The guard yawns, rubbing his eyes, then leans forward. “Name?”

“Smith. Ship’s called—” he struggles for a moment, thinking through the hangover to remember the fake ident he’d used here “— _Lucky_.”

The guard stiffens at the name. It’s a momentary thing, but it's enough to set Clint’s alarm bells ringing. His fake papers usually fly by without a trace, but given how new this station is, they might have better scanning equipment than he’s used to. Which means at the very least, he’ll get busted for having fake papers.

At worst, he’ll get busted for who he is, but hopefully things won’t come to that.

“Mr. Smith,” the guard says, eyes shifting nervously. “There’s been some...problems, with your paperwork.”

“What kinda problem?” Clint asks, rubbing his eyebrows. Goddammit. He just wants to get on his ship, stick himself with some painkillers, and get out into the stars. Get a couple systems away from here, put some space between himself and the Peacekeepers. Fringing stupid to come here, what the hell was he thinking?

_You weren’t thinking, idiot. You were chasing credits._

Which is true. He’s gotta start taking better jobs, really. Maybe he needs to call up Romanoff again, she’s usually got decent ones around, and she’s probably not _too_ mad at him for the whole Eidolon fiasco. Or he hopes she isn’t. It’s been _three_ years, surely that’s enough time—

“Mr. Smith,” says another voice, and Clint glances to his left as three station security guards suddenly materialize there. “If you would come with us, please.”

“What’s this about?” Clint asks, not moving. He’s not stupid enough to try and run away from a couple of Chronophages unless he’s desperate—they can fold space within a ten foot-radius, he’ll make it all of two feet—but he’s not just willingly offering his ass up either.

“We’d like to discuss that somewhere more private,” one of them says, stepping closer. They’re so _tall_. Clint always forgets that until he runs into them again. Tall, and skinny, with nearly translucent skin that’s stretched thin over a network of pulsing blue veins. They’re creepy, honestly, and Clint can’t look at them for too long without shuddering.

“Well, I want to know now,” he says. “Forgive me for being curious.”

“Your papers are not in order,” the leader says, stepping closer, pinning Clint in place with those hypnotic purple eyes.

“As in...” he says, clenching his fist to try and keep himself grounded in the moment.

“As in they don’t have the proper name.”

That’s not good. “What name do you think should be on there?”

The purple eyes narrow, and then the Chronophage says, “Why don’t you tell us...Mr. Barton?”

_Guess it’s time to get desperate._

Clint moves instantly. He shoves the Chronophage backwards, hard as he can, bowling it into the other two. Then he yanks his pulse pistol out, fires a couple shots at the gate mechanism, and books it through as soon as the force field falters. He’s just got to get to his ship, or at least close to it. _The Avenger_ ’s got an extendable gravity field. It had cost him a stupid amount to install, but it’s worth it to be able to slip Chronophages and other species that can manipulate space-time.

“Stop!” he hears behind him, which is more funny than anything, and then to his left there’s a tell-tale rush of wind and a pop—

He ducks the pulser blast, tucking and rolling behind a pillar, and taps the band around his right wrist to turn it on. “SILAS,” he says, and hears a beeping noise in the affirmative. “Start the ship, start it right the fring _now_ —”

“Running again, are we, sir?” asks the mechanical voice.

“Don’t need your fringing commentary,” Clint snarls, ducking another blast. “Extend the gravity field and get ready to lower the ramp, I’m coming in hot—“

“Of course you are,” SILAS sighs. Clint’s not entirely sure how a computer system can sound exasperated, but SILAS always seems to manage it. “Tracking your position. You are currently one-hundred yards outside the radius of the gravity generator, and your chances of making it—”

“Don’t you fringing dare!” Clint dives to his right, firing another blast back at the lead Chronophage. “You know I hate statistics, you asshole—”

“I am merely trying to provide you with information, sir.”

“Well stop, because it’s not helpful!”

“Statistical subroutines, offline.”

Clint sprints across the expanse of the cargo bay. There’s no point in trying to hide, not now. Speed is more important than stealth. He’s just gotta get close enough so they can’t fold space around him—

A translucent body suddenly appears in front of him, arm extended forward. Clint’s going too fast to stop, so he doesn’t even bother to try, he just slams right into it, a full-on tackle that sends both of them skidding across the glassy black marble floor. The Chronophage howls in his ear, a horrible high-pitched shriek that makes him wince—

“You are within range,” SILAS says, and Clint grins. He rolls with the momentum, getting back up to his feet with a grace that surprises even himself, and books it the last hundred feet into his ship.

“Get us out of here!” he yells, sprinting up the stairs, barely managing to catch himself on the wall as he takes a corner too fast. “Now!”

“We are still tethered into place—”

“SILAS!”

“Commencing liftoff,” SILAS says, sounding like an exasperated parent, and Clint dives into the cockpit. He straps himself into the chair, hands automatically flipping switches. “Sir, the tether—”

“Release it!” Clint commands, and grabs the yoke. “I don’t fringing care if we lose it, we gotta go before they start—” A loud alarm splits the air, and Clint looks ahead as the blast doors start closing, cutting off his view of the stars.

“Blast doors are closing,” SILAS says, like Clint is blind or something.

“Fringing punch it, then!”

SILAS sighs, and the ship lurches forward, throwing Clint against his half-buckled restraints. He barely manages to save his head from smacking onto the control panel, looking up in time to see the gap narrowing.

“We have a ten percent chance—”

“More power!”

The ship lurches again, and Clint has half a moment of sheer terror, imagining the ship crashing into the thick blast doors, which would just be the _stupidest_ way to die—

But they make it, slipping through at the last moment, and he lets out a loud whoop. “That’s what I’m _talking_ about!”

“Congratulations,” SILAS says dryly. “It might interest you to know that the station security force is launching their own ships.”

“Shit.” Clint leans forward. “Get us out of here.”

“We do not have a course.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Clint snaps. “I’m going to drop you off at a junkyard and get myself a ship’s computer that’s not such an asshole. We don’t need a course, just pick a goddamn direction and fly the fringing—”

He cuts off as the ship lurches, and reaches out to turn the scanners on. “Aaaand now they’re shooting at us. Get us out of here!”

“Setting a course,” SILAS says. “We need further distance from the station.”

“How much further?”

“Another thirty seconds. If we enter FTL here, we will—”

“I know,” Clint snaps. “We’ll blow up the station. Innocent lives. I get it. Gimme the controls.”

“Manual control engaged.”

He grabs the control column and drops the ship into a dive, feeling his stomach swoop as the artificial gravity responds. He keeps an eye on the scanners, ducking and dodging every blast of laser fire. “What the hell are they flying, SILAS?”

“Firetails, sir.”

Shit. Smaller and more maneuverable than a Falcon. He can outrun them, but if there’s enough of them, they can outflank him easier. “How much further?”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“I’m just gonna gun it,” Clint says, and shoves the control column forward. “Come on, baby, you can do it.”

“Ten seconds.”

Clint keeps the column forward, gaze flicking back and forth between the scanners and the engine dials, wincing as the needles tick over into the red. “Come on,” he hisses, patting them with his free hand. “Come on, baby, you can do it.”

“Five seconds.”

A little shot of joy rings through him—they’re gonna do it, they’re gonna get away—

The ship lurches hard, nearly tossing Clint into the panel again, and he swears loudly, turning to see smoke billowing up the corridor, black and inky and foul-smelling.

“Oh, _that’s_ not good,” he breathes, slamming the door closed.

“Optimal distance,” SILAS announces, and the engines whine as _The Avenger_ drops into the familiar grey cocoon of faster-than-light travel. As soon as they settle into it, he adds, “Starting fire suppression.”

“Shit,” Clint says, and starts to get up. “What happened?”

“They hit the starboard drive pod. We will not be able to maintain FTL for any sustainable length of time.”

“Shit!” Clint rubs a hand over his face. “Please tell me it’s fixable.”

“I will inform you as soon as the fire is out.” There’s a pause, and then, “Perhaps, sir, at our next stop, you should invest in a shield as I have previously suggested—”

“SILAS, I swear to every fringing star out there, I _will_ have you scrapped—”

“I am merely attempting to be helpful, sir.”

“You’re not,” he says, fighting the urge to scream. “You’re not helpful at all.”

“My apologies.”

Clint snarls something animalistic into his hands and gets up. “Is the fire out?”

“It is.”

“And the damage?”

There’s a long pause, and then, “Extensive.”

“Are we going to crash?”

“Most likely.”

“Great. Just _great_.” Clint goes over to the navigation console, opening up a holo-map. “How far can we make it?”

One of the planets lights up. “Here would be an optimal landing point. There is a repair station and—“

“And people,” Clint says. “Find me somewhere uninhabited. I’ll fix this myself; I’ve got supplies and you can pull up specs for me.”

“You do realize, sir, that this will take multiple days? It would be faster and safer—”

“People means law enforcement,” Clint says. “I need to lay low for a while until I can get a different ident chip for the ship, and another set of papers. Last thing I need is Peacekeepers coming down on me when I can’t get away.”

“Might I suggest—”

“If you’re about to tell me to turn from a life of crime, the answer is gonna be the same as the last fourteen times you said that.”

SILAS sighs. “The nearest uninhabited planet is CA-897.”

“Was that so hard?” Clint sets the course for it, feeling the ship lurch as it turns slightly. “Oh boy. This is gonna be a hell of a landing, isn’t it?”

“Landing might be a generous word, sir.”

“Fring it,” Clint sighs, and goes to make sure everything’s strapped down.

* * *

Landing turns out to be an _extremely_ generous word. Clint considers himself to be one of the best pilots in the whole fringing galaxy, but it takes just about everything he’s got to save himself and _The Avenger_ from a fiery crash.

He ends up slamming it into the ground on a long, tall expanse of cliff, leaving an almost hundred-meter gouge in the ground behind him. Clint throws the burners in reverse and death grips the control console joystick, managing to turn the ship enough that he crashes nose-first into the next level of cliff, as opposed to burner-first. It crumples the front of the ship pretty badly, but that’s better than dying in an explosion, so he counts it as a win.

“Well,” he says to SILAS, forcibly prying his hand off the joystick, “that was fun.”

“You have an interesting definition of fun, sir.”

“Any day I’m not dead is a good day,” Clint says, and gets up. “How’s the landing gear?”

“Non-functional.”

“And the ramp?”

“Also non-functional.”

“Is _anything_ functional?”

“Would you like a comprehensive list?”

Clint sighs. “Yeah. Send it to the wristpad. I’m gonna go take a look at the drive pod.” He pauses, then says, “Which one is it?”

“Starboard. The damage is quite extensive.” A hologram pops up from his wristpad, and Clint winces as the different parts light up. “It is also overheating. You may look at the damage, but I would advise not getting too close unless you wish to be set on fire.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Bet you’d _love_ that, wouldn’t you?”

“I certainly would not, sir. Your death would trap me on this planet, seeing as you disabled my ability to contact my manufacturer.”

“Well _yeah_ ,” Clint says, whacking the scanners. They fizz into life, and he checks the environment, making sure he can go out without a suit. “I stole this ship, remember? Be fringing stupid if I left you the ability to call home.”

The environment looks sustainable for human life. He opens the tool locker and grabs a couple things, then forces his way out the crumpled side door of the ship, easily dropping the couple meters to the ground.

The damage is definitely extensive. The ship is lodged nose-first in the rocks, in what looks like a cave. It’s pretty badly damaged, the front shield cracked all to hell, and the underside of the ship is torn up from the skid across the ground. He’ll have to get the landing gear done somewhere professional, but the engine part he should hopefully be able to do himself.

He keeps his distance, mindful of what SILAS had said, and looks at the starboard drive pod. It doesn’t look good. He can see the burnt, twisted metal from here, the scorch marks inside the drive, and the bits of wires hanging down. It’s gonna take him _ages_ to fix that, and he just got the fringing thing repaired half a cycle ago, too.

He crosses his arms and stares at the pod, mind flipping through potential repairs. He’s got the parts for it—he learned that lesson early on in his career—and he knows how, so it’s really more of a labor thing. Annoying, but workable.

“Damn security guards,” he spits, setting the toolbox down and tapping his wristpad. “SILAS, scan around and see if there’s anything edible. Gonna have to live off the land for a bit.”

All things considered, he’s crashed in worse places. It’s warm here, very temperate, and there’s a hell of a view. He’s on some kind of island cliff, overlooking a gorgeous expanse of purple ocean. The wall of rocks he crashed into is at the base of a large mountain, red rocks stretching high against the sunset. It’s gorgeous, really.

“Sir,” SILAS says. “I’m detecting other lifeforms in the area.”

“I thought you said this place was uninhabited,” Clint says, scanning around. “Is it dangerous?”

“Unsure. It is not a species I am familiar with.”

Clint frowns. “Really? I thought your data banks were—”

“This looks interesting,” says a voice behind him, and Clint spins around to see a figure emerging from the other side of _The Avenger_. He’s—

Well, he’s _naked_ , which is the first thing Clint notices. Naked, and tall, with shoulder length brown hair that brushes his very broad shoulders. He’s tan, and muscled all to hell, with abs and biceps and hip flexors, and he’s naked—

“Who the hell are you?” Clint asks, grabbing the first thing his hand closes around—a thick metal spanner.

“I think I should be the one asking that,” the man says, seemingly unconcerned that he’s fringing _naked_. “Considering that you’re the one who destroyed my home.” He points at the cave where _The Avenger_ is lodged. His left arm is pitch black, with golden shimmery veins running through it, and it’s a sharp contrast against the rest of his tanned skin.

“I didn’t mean to,” Clint says, a little confused, because who the fuck lives in a cave? “I was—they shot my starboard drive pod out, okay? Hard to steer without that thing. You ever see a bird try to fly with one wing?”

There’s a faint look of amusement on the man’s face, like he knows a joke Clint doesn’t, and Clint hates it.

“Anyway,” Clint continues. “I just need a couple days to fix it, that’s all. A few days to get it right and then I’ll be out of your hair. Got it?”

“Who shot at you?” the man asks, moving to sit on a rock. He stretches languidly, like he’s just taking in the sun.

“Station security.”

“And _why_ were they shooting at you?”

“I may have...” Clint waves a hand. “Specifics don’t matter. I pissed them off. I’m good at that.”

“Mmhmm.” That amused look gets broader. “And how did you do that?”

Clint shakes his head. “Buddy, I’m not gonna tell a naked guy my whole life story, okay? Stop talking to me and let me fix the fringing ship, alright?”

The man tilts his head, something darkening in his eyes. He stands up in one fluid motion, and strides across the ground to Clint, power and purpose in every movement. Clint’s the taller of the two, but this guy exudes so much _aura_ that Clint finds himself taking a few steps back anyway. “Uh,” he says, eyes going wide.

“I’m asking,” the man says, still stepping forward, “because I don’t like outsiders. I don’t like trouble. And I particularly don’t like outsiders bringing trouble right to my _fringing_ front door.”

He pronounces the curse word carefully, like he’s unfamiliar with it, but that doesn’t make it any less intimidating. Clint backs up until his shoulders hit the ship. “I...” he starts, swallowing nervously.

“Tell me,” the man says, putting a hand on Clint’s chest, pinning him against the wall of the ship.

“Don’t fringing touch me,” Clint snaps, trying to be brave, and he reaches for the guy’s wrist with his free hand—

The man grabs it, quick as thought, and shoves it against the ship by Clint’s head. He does the same with Clint’s other hand, then steps even closer, pressing himself against Clint’s body. Clint can feel the outline of his dick against his own thigh, and he thinks that in another context this might be arousing, but he’s so fringing scared right now that he can’t even think straight.

“Oh, little human,” the man says, chuckling low in the back of his throat. “Are you giving _me_ orders?”

“I’m not little,” Clint whispers, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say. There is a naked man pinning him to his own ship, and his heart is pounding, because everything about this guy is just screaming _danger danger danger_. Even his eyes are changing, morphing from a friendly blue-grey into something sharper, the pupils becoming more vertical—

“You _are_ little,” the man murmurs. “Little, and inconsequential. A mere second when measured against eons.”

Clint swallows again. “Sure know how to make a guy feel special,” he manages.

The man smiles. It’s not friendly, but his eyes at least change from that terrifying vertical slit back into something more...human.

“Answer my question,” he says, not letting go of Clint. “What did you do, and will there be anybody following you?”

Clint scowls at him, but the man doesn’t show any signs of moving. “Fine,” he snaps. “I was smuggling medicine, alright? For a border colony on Bados.”

“Oh?”

“It’s illegal,” Clint continues. “But they’re all dying from some curable disease, and the officials were charging them a stupid amount, so I...helped.”

“Altruistic of you,” the man murmurs.

“I don’t know what that means,” Clint says. “But it’s gotten me nothing but trouble, so see if I ever do that again.” He pulls against the grip on his wrists. “Let me _go_.”

The man blinks at him, then slowly releases his hold, stepping back just enough to give Clint some breathing room. Clint straightens his jacket with a tug and brushes a hand through his hair.

“Will there be anyone following you?” the man asks.

“I don’t think so.” Clint looks up at the sky, like a hoard of Chronophages is gonna descend at any second. “I mean—you can’t track anyone into FTL unless there’s something on the ship, and SILAS would’ve told me if we were being tracked, so...” He trails off at the man’s look of confusion. “Uh. What?”

“I do not understand these words,” the man says. “Explain.”

It’s Clint’s turn to be confused. “FTL? Faster-than-light? The whole reason we can space travel at all? How have you not heard of that?”

The man doesn’t offer an explanation. “And SILAS?”

“He’s my computer.” Clint gestures to _The Avenger_. “Stark Integrated Logistics and Security. He’s my right hand guy. Helps me run things, plot courses—”

“Dramatically escape from station security,” SILAS adds, and Clint clamps a hand over his wristpad.

The man looks down. “What’s that?”

“It’s my wristpad,” Clint says, displaying the thin band around his wrist. “Works in tandem with the ship so I can control things. SILAS can talk to me through it. He’s also a sarcastic asshole.”

“I am merely a reflection of your own personality, sir,” SILAS says, managing to sound very innocent for a computer.

“Are you calling _me_ a sarcastic asshole?”

“I am, sir.”

Clint nods. “Fair.”

The man smirks. “I see,” he says, dragging his eyes over Clint in a way that’s a little arousing and a lot terrifying. “It’s been many years since I’ve laid eyes on a human. I’d forgotten how...unusual a species you can be.”

“You say that like you’re not one,” Clint says, a trickle of nervousness edging through him.

The smirk gets wider. “I’m not.”

Clint swallows hard, although that was the answer he expected. “So...what are you?”

The blue-grey eyes change again, morphing into that vertical slit, electric blue around the black pupil. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Clint shakes his head. He’s well-traveled, more than most, over a dozen systems and hundreds of planets under his belt, but this is new. And considering even SILAS couldn’t put a name to him, Clint’s more than a little curious. “I don’t. Humor me.”

The man steps back even further, backing up until he’s a solid twenty meters from Clint, standing at the cliff’s edge. He narrows his eyes at Clint in a ‘don’t you dare move’ look, which Clint is more than happy to comply with for the moment. Then he tilts his head up to the sky, holds his arms out to the side, and falls backwards into open space.

“Whoa!” Clint yells, and stumbles a couple steps towards the guy, because seriously, what the—

He stops as a massive shape comes rearing up from the cliff’s edge, almost twice the size of _The Avenger_ , red and shimmery and brilliant. It lands with a thud on the clifftop, hard enough to shake the entire thing and knock Clint on his ass. He barely even notices; he’s too busy staring at the giant red creature perched in front of him. It stares back, blinking slowly.

“Holy stars,” Clint says, staring at him, suddenly remembering the stories he used to read as a kid. “You’re a _drakkon_?”

The drakkon snorts in amusement, smoke trailing from its nostrils as it studies him with one icy blue eye. Clint drags his gaze over the mass of scales, the spines, the horns protruding from the top of its head. The left wing and left foreleg are both black, struck through with gold veins, but the rest of it is a shimmery, muted red that manages to both reflect and absorb the sunlight at the same time, like some kind of light paradox. It’s gorgeous, and terrifying, and Clint’s not sure if he wants to keep looking or run away screaming.

“Cool,” he says after a moment, eloquent as always, and the drakkon opens its mouth as if laughing, more smoke curling lazily into the sky. Clint immediately fixates on the rows of fangs, gleaming and nearly as long as his forearm. If this thing decides to _eat_ him, he sure as stars ain’t gonna stand a chance.

The drakkon tilts its head, studying him. It still looks amused, managing to convey a sense of superiority even just through its general body posture. Then it shifts, suddenly growing smaller, and seems to shrink, morphing back into the naked man. He smiles, overly pleased with himself. “Does that answer your question, human?”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says. “Um...” He turns and looks at _The Avenger,_ suddenly very nervous. “I’m real sorry about your cave.”

“Mmm,” is all the man says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “What is your name?”

“Hawkeye,” Clint says, which isn’t necessarily a lie. That’s the name most people know him by, particularly in the smuggling world. The only person who calls him _Clint_ these days is Natasha, and she probably uses it as a curse more than anything else.

The man just raises an eyebrow. He’s unfairly handsome, Clint suddenly realizes. Between the hair, and the jawline, and the confidence just pouring off him...yeah. He’s everything Clint’s into, which isn’t really good, because he can also _eat_ Clint without a second thought if he wants to, and every sensible part of Clint is screaming at him to get out of here.

“That’s not your name,” the man says.

“That’s one of them.”

“What is your true name?”

Clint shakes his head. “No way,” he says. “Absolutely not. I know the stories.”

The man smirks. “Oh?”

“I grew up on that shit. I was obsessed with drakkons as a kid.” He’s talking too much, he knows, but the way those blue-grey eyes are fixed on him is unnerving, and his first line of defense is always to talk his way out of things. “If I give you my name, then you own my soul for a year and a day, or whatever. And you’re hot and all, but I’ve got things to do out in the black, and I sure as stars ain’t staying on this damn island for—”

He cuts off with a pained grunt as he finds himself pressed against the ship again, wrists pinned to the metal by his head. “Okay, _ow_.”

“You came to my home,” the man says, voice low. “You came to _my_ home, destroyed _my_ dwelling, and brought trouble with you. Five-hundred years I’ve been living in peace, and you have broken it.”

Clint blinks. “You’re five-hundred years old?”

“Older,” the man says, his eyes going distant, and his voice turns condescending. “I am older than you can imagine.” He shifts his grip, putting Clint’s arms above his head and easily holding them there with his black arm. “I have lived a hundred lifetimes, and seen the rise and fall of a hundred planets. I have witnessed the birth of stars, and watched those same stars burn out into nothingness. I am ancient in ways that you will never understand.” His other hand trails down Clint’s face, like a caress, and Clint feels something sharp prick against his thundering pulse. “So answer my question, little one. What. Is Your. Name.”

Clint closes his eyes, fighting back the terror flooding through him. “Clint,” he chokes out, holding deathly still, his entire focus on the claw—it _has_ to be a claw—set against his neck. “It’s Clint Barton, okay? Please don’t kill me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Clint’s mind goes blank. “I don’t know,” he finally says, after the longest minute of his life. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“That’s not very convincing,” the man says, tracing the claw over his neck. “I have your life in my hands, and you’re not sure why I should let you keep it?”

Clint swallows. “I’m not really...” he starts, then trails off. His life doesn’t flash before his eyes, but he does think about the choices he’s made, and they all landed him here, and it leaves a hollow feeling in his chest. He likes his life—likes the adrenaline and the adventure of it, but he can’t kid himself into thinking he’s ever done something _worth_ anything. He’s just a smuggler, when it comes down to it. A criminal. Just another in a long line of them.

“Not really what?”

“Worth it,” Clint says. “I don’t know.” He glances over the cliff edge, and the expanse of purple ocean, and thinks that if he’s gonna die, at least it’ll happen somewhere nice.

The man lets go.

It’s unexpected enough that Clint sags against the ship, his knees going weak. “What,” he starts, putting a hand to his throat. “I...what?”

He’s studying Clint intently, eyes searching for something in his face. And he apparently finds it, because after a moment, he nods. “You will come with me,” he says.

“Um.” Clint looks back at his ship. “But I gotta...I gotta fix this.”

The man looks over the ship. “Is it fixable?”

“Probably.” Clint sighs. “I don’t know. Hard to tell when some asshole keeps shoving me into the side of it.”

That gets him a laugh. “You will come with me,” he says again, waving a hand at the distant sun. “It will be nightfall soon, and you do not want to be out at nightfall.”

Clint points at his ship. “I can stay in there.”

“There are cythrauls on this planet. I have a safe place.”

Clint’s eyes go wide. “You gotta be fringing kidding me!” He’s only encountered the winged bloodsuckers once before, but they’re absolutely horrific, just evil-looking giant bat things, and he never wants to see them again.

Which means he’s gonna have to go with the guy, because cythrauls will eat through metal and steel if they think there’s a meal in it, and his ship will be about as much protection as a wet paper bag. And after that it’ll be just a useless hunk of metal, because there’s a reason spaceships don’t have holes in them. Not that he’ll care, because he’ll be a useless pile of bones, but still. He likes this ship.

“Where is your safe place?” he asks, looking around.

The man points up, and Clint follows the line of his arm to the mountain looming over them. “There is another cave at the top. I stay there sometimes, when I want a change. The cythrauls do not fly that high.”

Clint nods. “Well, I left my rock climbing gear in my other pants, so—”

The man rolls his eyes. “I will carry you.”

“You what?”

He changes again, morphing from the man into the giant red drakkon in the space of a few heartbeats. Then he reaches forward, picks up Clint in one enormous clawed foot, and launches himself into the air.

“Holy fringing—” Clint scrambles to hold onto the claw wrapped around his chest, the swooping sensation in his stomach making him nauseous as the ground suddenly recedes below. “No, no, _no_ —”

There’s a rumbling sound above him, almost like a chuckle, and he looks up to see one icy blue eye looking back at him. “Put me down!” he yells.

The eye blinks at him, somehow managing to convey a sense of _you idiot_ without a word, and Clint looks down at the thousand foot drop. Okay, yeah, maybe yelling at a drakkon to drop him isn’t the smartest idea, but he doesn’t like this at all, he likes flying when _he’s_ in control, not when his life is in the hands of some stupid dragon monster—

They arrive at another flat expanse of ground, this one about half as wide as the one below, and the drakkon carefully deposits Clint on the ground. He stumbles a couple steps, then collapses to the red dirt, heart pounding.

“Are you afraid of heights?” the man asks, after morphing back.

“No,” Clint says. “I’m not a fan of being grabbed by a giant dragon.”

The man’s face twists in annoyance. “I’m a _drakkon_ ,” he says. “There’s a difference.”

“Whatever.” Clint gets to his feet and walks to the edge of the cliff, looking at the drop down to his ship. His stomach twists, and he has to back away. Maybe he is a little afraid of heights, then.

The man misinterprets his look, though. “I’ll take you back down at sunrise,” he says. “When it’s safe. You will fix your ship, you will leave here, and you will never return.”

“Fine by me,” Clint snaps. “Didn’t want to come here in the first place.” He stalks over to the mouth of the cave, furious and tired and annoyed. “How long do we have before the vampire bats try to come eat me?”

The man laughs. “I told you, they won’t come up here. This is too high for them, and they wouldn’t dare enter my domain.”

“Why, are they scared of you?”

“Yes.” The man suddenly looks sad. “Most things are.”

Clint doesn’t know what to do with that—not like he’s gonna pretend otherwise—so he just nods and looks around. “Okay, then.”

“Come.” He beckons Clint into the cave, and Clint follows him on still-trembling legs.

There’s not much in here, which is...pretty much what he expected. It’s a fringing cave. There’s rocks, and dirt, and a pile of moss or something in the corner that he guesses is supposed to be a bed.

“Don’t suppose you have any food,” Clint says, looking around, not really sure what he’s looking for.

“No,” the man says. “I hunt for my meals when I need them. I do not store food.”

Clint sighs and resigns himself to spending the night hungry. “Alright.”

“I will hunt something for you.”

Clint holds up his hands. “It’s really not a big deal. I’ll survive.”

“I will hunt for you,” he repeats, and walks out of the cave, transforming in the space of a few steps before launching himself off the cliff top and flying away.

“Fringing bastard,” Clint mutters to himself, then feels slightly guilty about it, because the guy’s going out of his way to get food for Clint, which is...nice of him. And he’s also saving Clint from being eaten alive by horrible vampire bat monsters, which is...even more nice. Considering he could’ve just eaten Clint himself and called it a day.

Although if the stories are true, he also owns Clint’s soul for the next year and a day, so...

“Stupid,” he says out loud. “It was just a kids story. He doesn’t own your soul. You don’t even have a soul.”

He goes back over to the cliff edge and sits down, dangling his legs into space. It really is beautiful here. He’s never seen a purple ocean before, and the waning sun is warm, and the view is incredible.

“Crashed in worse places,” he mutters, and taps his wristpad. “SILAS, you there?”

“Unfortunately, sir.”

“Cut the backtalk,” Clint orders. “Do you have anything in your data banks on drakkons?”

“I do.”

Clint waits, fighting the urge to throw his wristpad into the ocean as nothing else comes up. “Are you going to share it, or do I need to take a screwdriver to you?”

“I doubt a screwdriver would do much good, sir.”

His wristpad beeps with incoming information, and Clint scrolls through all four lines of it. “What, is this it? There’s nothing here.”

“That is all I have, sir. Drakkons are considered to be somewhat mythical, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I just talked to one, so...maybe a little less mythical than we thought?”

“It would seem so, yes.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Fine. Look, I think I’m gonna be spending the night up here, so why don’t you go ahead and shut down everything. I’ll be down at sunrise.”

“Excellent, sir. I’ll set an alarm.”

“Maybe shut down your fringing attitude while you’re at it.” Clint scowls at his wristpad. “I am very sorry I crashed us on this planet. I will fix the ship, get us out of here, and...” He pauses. “I don’t know. Follow your advice and get a shield? Will that make you happy?”

“I am a computer, sir. Happy is not amongst my primary directives.”

“Whatever. Shut it down. Get some rest.” He stabs at his wristpad with a finger, cutting off what’s sure to be an asshole response.

He likes SILAS _so_ much, though, asshole or not. Best computer he’s ever stolen.

The sun has nearly vanished beneath the purple waves by the time the drakkon lands on the clifftop, shaking out his wings and dropping a giant lump next to Clint.

Clint probes at it with a finger, then scans it with his wristpad. It’s an oreamnos, a four-legged, hairy-looking bastard with horns protruding from the top of its head. Clint’s eaten them before, although not usually so...fresh. “Thanks,” he says, looking up at the drakkon. “I, uh...appreciate it.”

He blinks at him, then flies away again, coming back minutes later with what looks like an entire _tree_ in one claw. As Clint watches, he shreds the thick trunk into smaller logs with a few slashes of his claws, then lights them on fire with a single blast. Then he grabs the oreamnos and just rips a leg off, offering it to Clint in one massive claw.

“Okay,” Clint mutters, and gingerly takes it, grunting a little under the weight as he settles it fur-down on the rocks. He pulls out a knife and cuts off a chunk of meat, then picks up a stick and spears it, holding it over the fire. “This is officially the weirdest meal of my life.”

The drakkon chuckles, then slowly morphs back down into the naked man. “Is this enough?” he asks, gesturing to the leg. “I can hunt more.”

“I’m just one guy,” Clint says. “Yeah. It’s plenty. This is like...days of food. If it keeps.” He looks over the cliff edge. “I’ve got a flash freezer in the ship, I can—”

The man waves a hand. “I can hunt more. They are...pests. Whatever you do not have today we will take to the ocean. The morfils will be glad of a meal.”

“Circle of life, huh?” Clint asks, taking a bite.

The man smiles slightly. “Something like that.”

The sun dips fully below the ocean, and darkness settles over them. Clint looks up at the stars, feeling the familiar pull to get back out there. To take his ship and go explore, fly away, leave everything behind.

“You come from there?” the man asks, gesturing upwards.

“Yeah.” Clint studies the constellations, then says, “See the stretch of five stars together? Aim a ship for the one on the right, travel about a week or so. You’ll get to some backwater little grungehole of a planet. That’s where I’m from. Doesn’t even have a name, just a designation.” He pats at his belt, then scowls. “Aw, fring it. I left my water on the ship.”

“I have water,” the man says, getting up. He disappears into the cave, then comes back with, of all things, an old-fashion metal canteen. There’s three stars on the front, connected to each other by two thin lines, and each star has a letter etched in it. The logo of the Intergalactic Peacekeeping Agency.

“Where did you get this from?” Clint asks, rubbing his thumb over the stars. “This is official Peacekeeping gear. What are you doing with it?”

The man shakes his head. “You do not need to know,” he says coldly. “Do not ask again.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, so Clint squashes the little part of him that wants to be a dick and just nods. “Okay. Sorry.” He opens the canteen and takes a drink. “Why do you keep it, though? Kinda hard to open lids with dragon claws.”

“I am a _drakkon_ ,” the man says again, sounding offended. “Dragons are small animals without capacity for higher thought. Do not compare me to them.”

“Alright,” Clint says, holding up his hand. “Sorry, again.”

The scowl stays on his face. “I spend time in both forms, and I do not always wish to fly to the other side of the island for water. So I keep that for...convenience, you might say. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

That last thing is said in a _you’d better reconsider asking me anything_ kind of tone, but Clint’s never known when to stop, so he just shrugs. “Never met a drag—sorry, a drakkon before. I got lots of questions.”

The man looks very tired, suddenly. “I am going to regret bringing you up here, aren’t I?”

“Most people regret doing things with me,” Clint says. “A friend of mine once told me I’m an irritation of the spirit.” He flashes a smile. “You can always leave me to the vampire bats if I annoy you too much.”

The man laughs, a quick, startled thing that’s accompanied by a look of surprise. “Humans,” he says, shaking his head. “I always forget how...unusual you can be.”

Clint shrugs. “I’m more unusual than most.” He checks the meat, then tries a bite of it. It’s not particularly _good_ , but it’s edible, and he’s eaten worse things. “You want some of this?”

“No.” The man looks up at the stars again. “How long do you think you’ll be here?”

“Depends on how long it takes me to fix the ship,” Clint says. “I’ll know more tomorrow when I can actually look at it.” He takes another bite, then adds, “You don’t have to hang around. I’m used to being on my own.”

“It’s in my best interest to,” the man says. “The sooner you get it fixed, the sooner you can leave. I will keep you safe.”

Clint glances at him. “From what?”

“Everything,” he says ominously, which isn’t exactly reassuring. “There are predators on this island in the daylight as well. You are lucky I found you first.”

“I feel very lucky,” Clint says, gesturing around. “Always wanted to be kidnapped and taken to a drakkon’s lair. Can finally cross it off my bucket list.”

The man snorts and brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Like I said. Lucky.”

Clint finishes off his dinner and tosses the remains on the rest of the carcass. “Anyway. I’ll know more tomorrow, but until then...”

“You need to rest,” the man says, getting to his feet. “Yes. I will dispose of this, and then we can sleep.” He shifts into the drakkon and grabs the oreamnos, then flies off with a thunderous clap of wings. Clint watches him go, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Weirdest fringing day ever,” he says, and shivers. It’s cold here without the sunshine, so he grabs the canteen and troops into the cave, unsure of where to go. He doesn’t want to just climb into what’s probably the guy’s bed, but everywhere else looks vaguely uncomfortable. 

The man walks in a few minutes later, glancing at Clint with a skeptical eye. “Come,” he says, gesturing to the moss. “Rest.”

“With you?”

Those blue-grey eyes shine with amusement. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” Clint says. “But I don’t make a habit of sleeping with random naked guys that I don’t know.”

That’s probably the biggest lie he’s ever told in his life—he _definitely_ makes a habit of it, half his life has been spent in pursuit of sleeping with naked people he barely knows—but still, he feels like this situation is slightly different. This isn’t two souls meeting in a bar and flirting over drinks before going off together. This is...it’s just different.

“I don’t sleep in this form,” the man says, and transforms into the drakkon. He pads over to the pile of moss and settles onto it, moving and shifting until he lets out a contented rumble. Then he looks at Clint and tilts his head.

“Uh,” Clint says. “I’m really good over here, I can—”

The drakkon rolls his eyes. A moment later, his tail flicks out, wrapping around Clint and lifting him into the air, pulling him closer. He rumbles as Clint lets out an undignified shriek, kicking his feet and pushing at the immovable coil around him. “Stop _doing_ that!”

The drakkon deposits Clint against his side, then fixes him with an icy blue glare. Clint thinks about getting up and moving, but he figures he’ll make it about half a meter, and it’s probably not worth making the enormous, man-eating monster angry with him. So he just holds up his hands in surrender and says, “Fine. You win.”

There’s another rumble, this one sounding contented, and the coils loosen slightly. Clint shifts until he’s as comfortable as he’s gonna get, pressed against moss and scales and pinned by a giant tail. The drakkon is warm, at least, and chases away the chill of the night. And all things considered, he’s slept in worse places. At least this isn’t a garbage heap, or a sewage pipe, or under the bed of an Arachne. So he just swallows down his protests, closes his eyes, and does his best to sleep.

* * *

They wake up at sunrise, the bright light spilling into the cave and coaxing Clint from a deep sleep. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and looks down at the red tail still wrapped around him. It’s almost comforting, the weight of it around him. He kind of likes it.

There’s a grumbling behind him, the sound rumbling through his own chest, and he looks over to see the drakkon blinking an eye open.

“Morning,” he says. “Can you let me go now?”

The tail loosens slightly, and Clint forces himself to his feet. He stumbles out of the cave and finds a place off to the side to use as an impromptu bathroom. The sunrise is _gorgeous_ , brilliant light reflecting off the purple water in glittering paths of light. Clint’s not a morning person normally—okay, ever—but when he has to get up, he likes a good sunrise to go with it.

The drakkon is waiting at the mouth of the cave when he comes back. They meet eyes, and then he tilts his head down at the edge of the cliff, extending a clawed foot at the same time.

Clint grits his teeth and steps forward, letting the scales wrap around him. “Don’t drop me,” he mutters, getting an amused snort in return.

The ride down is just as terrifying as the ride up, and Clint has to take a minute to breathe when he makes contact with the ground. “Ugh,” he says when he finally straightens up. “I don’t like that.”

The drakkon transforms back into the man. “You fly things,” he says, gesturing at _The Avenger._ “Isn’t it the same?”

“I control that,” Clint says. “I don’t control you. If you wanted to drop me a thousand feet and watch me go splat, there’s really not a fringing thing I could do about it. So no. Not the same.”

The man looks offended. “I would not do that,” he says. “If I wanted to kill you, there are easier ways. Ones that won’t invite predators to pick at your remains.”

“You’re cheery,” Clint mutters, and taps his wristpad. “SILAS, wake up.”

The computer responds in a weary tone. “Good morning, sir. I am so pleased to see you are still alive.”

“Didn’t shut down the attitude, I see,” Clint says. “Alright. Give me a full sit-rep on this drive pod. I wanna fix it and get out of here.”

It takes him forever just to quantify the extent of the damage and make a plan to put it back together. By the time he crawls out of the pod, the sun is at midpoint, and he’s hot and sweaty. “Well?”

“This is a two-week job,” Clint says, stripping off his shirt and using it to clean the grease from his hands. “Minimum.” He sighs. “I’ll go as fast as I can, but that’s the best estimate I got. They hit me hard.”

To his surprise, the man doesn’t look angry. “Two weeks,” he says, eyes roaming over Clint’s chest in a way that makes him feel more naked than he is.

“Fourteen days,” Clint clarifies. “In Common time. I don’t know what the sunrise-sunset cycle is on this planet. So maybe longer.” He shrugs. “I can fix it, but that’s how long it’s going to take. It’s pretty shot up.”

The man nods. “I will help, where I can. It will go faster with two people, yes?”

“Yeah. That would be nice.” Clint looks at the ship, then at him. “Um. I’m gonna get you some pants, though. If you’re gonna go crawling around in a drive pod with me, you’re gonna want _some_ protection.”

Another nod. “This is acceptable.”

Clint clambers back into _The Avenger,_ coming out with some ration bars, water, and a pair of pants. “Do you know anything about fixing drive pods?”

“I do not.” He pulls the pants on, making a face as they settle over his skin.

“Great,” Clint sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Teaching a mythical creature space travel mechanics, This is gonna be _fun_.”

“I learn fast,” the man says, a somber note suddenly in his voice, and his eyes have a distant look to them. “I can be helpful.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says. “We’ll make it work.” He picks up a screwdriver and hands it to him, handle first. “What do I call you?”

That earns him a derisive snort. “All that fuss about true names, and you think you can just ask for mine?”

“I asked what I can call you,” Clint says. “Not even close to the same thing.”

“My name does not translate to your language,” the man says.

“My translator’s pretty good. Give it a shot.”

The man raises an eyebrow, then says something that comes out as a guttural rumble.

“Oh,” Clint says. “Okay. You were right.”

“Told you.” He looks smug as hell.

“Say it again,” Clint tells him, and listens to the syllables, trying to pick some out. “Okay. Can I call you Bucky? That’s about as close as I can get it.”

“Bucky,” the man says, rolling it around in his mouth. “Yes. I like that.”

“Great.” Clint picks up his own screwdriver. “Well, then, Bucky. Let’s get started, yeah?”

“Let’s get started,” Bucky echoes, and climbs up the ship after him.

* * *

They work on it for the rest of the day, breaking only for a meal as the sun starts to set. Bucky really is a fast learner. Clint had been worried about him being more of a hindrance, but it only takes one repetition before he picks up how to do something, and having a second set of hands makes the job significantly easier. Clint generally avoids having partners—he’s been betrayed one too many times for that—but he can’t deny that it’s nice to work next to Bucky, to have someone to talk to that’s not a sarcastic computer.

By the time the sun’s starting to go down, they’ve made a solid dent in cleaning out the debris of the ruined pod, and they’re starting to scrub the inside of it, washing off the flammable residue of the shot so it doesn’t ignite when Clint fires up the new engine.

“We should go,” Bucky says eventually. “I know a place we can get clean, and then we’ll need to get up to the cave before nightfall.”

“Alright,” Clint says. He climbs out of the pod and drops to the ground, storing his tools and grabbing a couple ration bars, a change of clothes, and his own canteen. “Where is this place?”

“There is a waterfall,” Bucky says, gesturing down the cliff face. “Down there.”

“Cool.” Clint looks over the edge, then groans. “That means flying.”

“It does,” Bucky agrees, a slight smile on his face. He takes off the pants, tossing them in the direction of the ship. Then he transforms into the drakkon and offers a foot to Clint.

Clint stuffs his things into a bag, then reluctantly steps into it. “Don’t drop me,” he says, and just like this morning, there’s an amused rumble. Bucky launches off the cliff face and flies them down to the base of the island, setting Clint down with care before transforming back.

“I’m not going to drop you,” he says. “I find you entertaining.”

“Thanks.” Clint shoulders his bag. “Which way is this waterfall?”

“Follow me.” Bucky leads him across the black sand to a crack in the cliff that forms a passageway. About a hundred meters in, it widens into a large cavern, lit by something glowing on the ceiling. “I don’t know their name,” he says, in response to Clint pointing up to them. “But they’re harmless.”

“Nice.” They’re bright enough to illuminate the entire cavern, washing everything in a mix of blue light and shadows. The waterfall is on the back of the cave, water thundering down into a pool that reflects the blue light back up. It’s almost eerie, but Clint likes it. It lends a subtle sense of coziness to the cavern.

Bucky steps into the pool, sighing happily. “Warm,” he says. “Come on in.”

Clint drops his bag and sheds his own clothes without hesitation, following Bucky into the water. It really is warm, almost hot, and it feels fantastic on his sore muscles. He wades his way over to the waterfall, letting the water pour over his back. “Oh,” he sighs, bracing himself against the wall. “That feels _so_ good.”

“It’s nice,” Bucky agrees, pitching his voice above the thundering water. Clint glances over at him, pulling his head out of the spray enough to see him.

“Is there a reason we can’t stay down here?” he calls over. “I mean, it’s got water—”

“Night snakes,” Bucky calls back.

“The fring is a night snake?”

“Twenty meter snake,” Bucky says. “Comes out at night. Night snakes. They like the water.”

Clint looks down at the water that’s knee-high around his legs. “Good feelings gone,” he says, and Bucky laughs.

“I won’t let them eat you,” he promises. “They’re scared of me too. They won’t bother us, even in this form, but it’s better to be safe.”

“Fair.” Clint ducks his head back under the waterfall, scrubbing at his hair to get the worst of the grease out. By the time he emerges, Bucky is lounging over by his bag, looking perfectly at ease with himself. He’s still dripping wet, the blue light turning each droplet into a little sapphire that glitters on his skin. Clint kind of wants to lick them off, chase each one with his tongue, see what kind of sounds he can get Bucky to make.

He’s never had sex with a drakkon before. Could be interesting. And Bucky’s studying him too, head tilted to the side, an unreadable expression on his face, lips slightly parted—

There’s a loud hissing noise to his right, and Clint whips around to see the biggest fringing snake he’s ever seen in his entire _life_ looming over him. It’s huge and electric green, and it hisses at him, mouth opening to reveal sharp fangs—

“Shit!” Clint yells, and dives to the side, just in time to miss being stabbed through the head with one. “Bucky!”

A clawed foot scoops around him, grabbing him by the middle. Clint has the presence of mind to snatch his bag along the way, and then he’s being carried out of the cavern through the crack in the rocks. As soon as the fading sunlight hits them, Bucky launches into the air, flying all the way up to the top of the mountain without missing a beat.

He deposits Clint on the red rocks, then lands, transforming back. “Night snakes,” he says, reaching out to catch Clint as he stumbles. “Easy. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Clint gasps, trying to calm his racing heart. “That was terrifying. You said they were scared of you!”

“They are,” Bucky says. “It wasn’t trying to eat me. It was trying to eat you.” He pats Clint’s cheek. “No harm done. You lived.”

“Just a minor heart attack,” Clint agrees, hand over his chest. “That was way too close for comfort.”

“We’ll go earlier next time,” Bucky says. “But it’s getting late. We should go in.” He gestures at the cave. “Come.”

He transforms again, shifting into the drakkon as he settles onto the moss, lifting a wing in encouragement. Clint stares after him a moment, still trying to process what the fring just happened, then gives up and goes to curl up against his side. It’s just going to be a weird few weeks. He’s going to have to accept that.

It’s not until he’s half asleep that he realizes he’s still naked, and after a moment, decides he doesn’t care. Bucky parades around naked all the time, and Clint’s not exactly shy about his body. If Bucky doesn’t mind, then he’s not going to either.

“Clothes are overrated anyway,” he mutters, and curls up tighter into the warm scales next to him.

* * *

The days take on a pattern, after that.

They wake up with the sunrise. They fly down to the ship and spend the morning working, fixing and wiring and welding _The Avenger_ back together. They break for lunch—Clint has half a ration pack, Bucky lounges against a rock and watches him with an interested expression. They go back to work. Before sunset, Bucky calls a halt, and they go down to the cavern to rinse off. There’s no more night snakes, at least, although Clint’s not sure if that’s because Bucky scared them off the other day, or if they’re just going early enough for them not to be a problem. Not that he cares either way—he’s perfectly happy not being eaten by a giant snake, thank you very much.

After cleaning up, Bucky flies him back up to the cave at the top. If he needs to eat, he goes out hunting, and brings something back for Clint, otherwise, Clint just has the other half of his ration pack. Then they curl up on the moss together, Bucky’s tail wrapped around Clint in a secure embrace, and they fall asleep. Then they wake up with the sunrise and the whole thing starts all over again.

It’s surprisingly domestic, and oddly enough, Clint finds himself liking it. He thought he was hardwired for movement, incapable of staying anywhere for more than a few days at a time. But he likes this forced vacation thing going on here. He likes it a _lot_.

Okay, so it’s mostly Bucky he likes. He can’t help it. Bucky is funny, and easy-going, and drop-dead gorgeous. He’s wicked smart, too, which is something else Clint loves, and he picks things up so quickly that in a matter of days Clint doesn’t have to help him anymore. He crawls around the ship with confidence, joking with SILAS like they’ve been friends for years, and looking more at ease every passing day.

“Hey,” Clint says on the seventh day. “Do you really own my soul now, or is that just a bunch of shit made up to scare kids?”

Bucky smiles mysteriously. “Hard to say,” he says, flipping a spanner in his hand before getting back to tightening down the new panel. Clint watches him work and finds himself thinking that even if it is true, he really doesn’t mind so much.

That’s not to say things are perfect between them. Clint makes the mistake one day of asking what happened to his arm, and Bucky gets quiet, then turns into the drakkon and disappears for the rest of the day, vanishing long enough that Clint starts to make plans to lock himself in his ship. He does finally come back, picking Clint up and dropping him in front of the cave just as the sun sets completely. “Don’t ever ask me that again,” he says. “Ever.”

“I won’t,” Clint promises. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Bucky looks at him, then transforms and crawls onto the moss. Clint hesitates at the mouth of the cave, wondering if he should even follow, but then Bucky sighs and lifts a wing. Clint goes without hesitation, plastering himself against Bucky’s scales.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, running his hand over the rough warmth of them. “I didn’t mean to.”

Bucky rumbles quietly and tucks his tail around him, and Clint assumes that means he’s forgiven. “Thank you,” he says, something easing in him, something he hadn’t even realized was tense.

There’s another rumble, and the tail tightens around him. Clint smiles and leans on it, falling asleep to the soft sound of Bucky’s breathing.

* * *

The next day is a little awkward at first, but then Bucky asks him a question about electrical wiring, and the tension vanishes into the wind. By the time they break for lunch, things are normal between them, and Clint feels safe enough to ask something else that’s been on his mind.

“Hey,” he says, handing Bucky part of a chocolate bar. “Question.”

Bucky tenses. “Yeah?”

“What’s the difference between a drakkon and a dragon?”

His shoulders relax instantly. “Drakkons are shape-shifters. We can go between forms, and we’re capable of higher thought. Very similar to humans, in a way.” He grins. “A lot smarter, though.”

“Shut up,” Clint says, shoving his shoulder. “I’m very smart. I just taught you how to rewire a whole fringing drive pod from scratch.”

“You are smart,” Bucky agrees, shoving him back. “Very clever, for a little human.”

Clint sticks his tongue out at him. “So what, dragons are stupid?”

“No. They’re just not capable of speech.” Bucky takes a bite of the chocolate bar, then says, “They’re animals. Nothing magical about them.” He thinks for a moment. “There’s an island of them an hour from here. Want to see them?”

“Yes!” Clint says instantly, excited at the thought. He’s only ever seen them in captivity, but to see an actual dragon in the wild—yeah, this is definitely the best vacation ever. “Except do you have to carry me the whole way?”

“Unless you can walk on water,” Bucky says. “Yeah, I have to fly you.”

Clint sighs. Probably worth it for dragons. He’s always wanted to see them wild. “Fine.”

“You can ride on my back,” Bucky offers. “I don’t have to _carry_ you.”

Clint perks up. “Really?”

“Sure.” He laughs. “Just don’t fall off.”

“I won’t,” Clint says, which is how he finds himself the next morning climbing onto Bucky’s broad back, settling himself at the junction of his shoulders and neck. He clings to the red spike in front of him, and yells, “Go!”

Bucky jumps off the cliff, and there’s a moment of heart-stopping free-fall before he flares his wings, catching the wind in them, and they soar out over the ocean.

Clint lets out a loud whoop, throwing his arms up in the air as soon as they settle into a flight pattern. “This is fringing awesome!” he yells over the wind, and he feels Bucky’s chest rumble with a laugh. “I love this!”

It’s _incredible_ , this feeling. It’s like the first time he ever got behind the control column of a ship, felt the sensation of rising into the air, felt the wind buffeting him around and he _knew_ that it was the only thing he ever wanted to do from that moment on. It’s independence.

It’s _freedom_.

The flight is over too fast, and Bucky lands on another island similar to their own, with the same kind of tiered mountain, and turns back into a man. This one is more jungle-like, gnarled trees taking up what would be the flat expanse of the cliffs on the other island. “They’ll take a moment to come out,” he says. “You’re new. But they trust me. I’m going to shift again, it’ll happen faster. They recognize my other form more.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and leans against his leg as soon as he shifts back. The scales are warm under his back, and he likes the sensation of roughness rubbing through his thin shirt. Bucky huffs quietly, nudging him with his head, then gestures a claw towards the jungle.

There’s a golden dragon sitting there, like a miniature version of Bucky, small and cute, head tilted in confusion. It lets out a little roar, and Bucky grumbles in response, and it comes closer, carefully walking across the vines.

Clint sits down, trying to make himself smaller, and holds out a hand. The dragon hesitates, then comes even closer, nudging into his palm with a warm snout. “Hi,” Clint says, keeping his voice soft, and lets the dragon set the pace, nosing around his skin.

More of them appear in the treeline—all kinds of shapes and sizes, more than enough colors to fill a rainbow and then some. It’s incredible, the variety, and Clint finds himself staring open-mouthed. The ones he’s seen in space zoos have all been lackluster grey or black, but these are all so _vibrant_ and beautiful that it takes his breath away. He finds himself blinking back tears as they come closer, making little noises and circling around him. The gold one settles in his lap and purrs as he strokes a hand along it, carefully rubbing the scales.

They stay there most of the day. Bucky seems content to lay in the sun behind him, wings out to catch the light, and Clint is more than happy to lay on the vines and be surrounded by little dragons. They climb all over him, claws trip-trapping over his skin, bellowing at each other and sending up little puffs of fire. Clint’s shirt is singed to hell by the time they start to fade back into the trees, but he doesn’t really care.

He turns to Bucky, unable to keep the grin off his face. “That was so cool,” he says, crawling over to press his forehead against Bucky’s scaly snout. “Seriously. That was awesome.”

Bucky huffs out a puff of smoke and flicks his tongue out. Then he clambers up to his feet, stretching out like a cat before lowering himself down for Clint to climb on.

The flight back is even shorter, the wind providing a boost, and they’re back on the clifftop in no time. Clint slides off Bucky and turns to face him, and as soon as he’s human-shaped, he throws his arms around him. “Thank you,” he says again. “You have—you don’t know what that was like.”

“I have an idea,” Bucky murmurs, awkwardly hugging him back. “But I’m glad you liked it.”

Clint pulls back, but keeps his arms looped around Bucky’s neck. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Where are the other drakkons?”

Bucky’s face goes tight, and he shakes his head. “They’re gone,” he says. “They—they’re not here anymore.”

“Gone like off-world, or...”

“Dead,” Bucky says, his voice low. “I’m the last one.”

Clint tugs him into a hug again. “Sorry,” he says. “I won’t ask anymore.”

“No,” Bucky says. “No, it’s—it’s okay. I can tell you. It would be nice to tell someone.” He shrugs out of Clint’s arms. “I’m going to go hunt. Get us something to eat. We can talk after.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just launches himself from the cliff as a human, coming back up as a drakkon and flying into the distance. Clint watches him go, then turns to set up the campfire and get things ready.

He comes back with another oreamnos, and they follow the normal routine. Bucky stays quiet until the meal is gone and the fire is nearly burned out, embers sizzling in the waning light.

“There used to be hundreds of us,” Bucky finally says. “We lived on another planet. I don’t remember the name of it anymore. It was far from here.” He takes a shuddering breath. “We were happy there.”

Clint doesn’t say anything, just waits and keeps stirring the embers.

“Then people came,” Bucky says. “Humans. They were scientists, at first. Explorers. We let them in, showed them our lives. We gave them our food, and our hospitality, and in return—” He stops, covering his face.

Clint scoots over closer, putting a hand over his knee. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “Right here.”

Bucky nods, and after a moment, straightens up. “We live a long time,” he says. “Drakkons. Thousands of years, some of us. And we also...” He trails off. “I don’t know how to describe it. We share a mind?”

“Collective consciousness,” Clint says. “That was one of the things I read as a kid. I remember that. You all shared memories, right?”

Bucky nods. “Yes. So we knew what our ancestors knew, and knowledge was passed down. It brought us closer. And those two things—our long lifespan and our shared mind—made us unique. And that’s what they wanted. The scientists.” He takes a deep breath. “They called themselves Hydra. They stole us from our planet, brought us to underground facilities somewhere else. Kept us locked away. Didn’t let us see the sky for years.”

Clint’s heart twists as he imagines it. Being locked in a cell, trapped for years, unable to fly away. There’s a reason he’s been running from the Peacekeepers as long as he has. That would _kill_ him.

He can only imagine how much worse it would be for someone like Bucky, who needs space to run and grow and fly.

“I escaped,” Bucky says. “I was so young, then. Barely a century. So young. And small for my age. Small enough that I could slip out through a door someone had carelessly left open. So that’s what I did.” He shudders. “I left them all behind. My family. My friends. I left them, and ran, and ended up here. I haven’t been able to hear them since.”

“Hydra’s dismantled,” Clint says slowly. “They’ve been gone for almost five hundred years.”

Bucky nods. “I know. Sometimes—sometimes people land here, like you did. I don’t usually come out to talk with them, but I can—I have good hearing. I listen to what they say.”

Clint studies him. “You’re six hundred years old?”

“Something like that,” Bucky agrees quietly. “Haven’t been keeping track.”

“Wow,” Clint says. “Six hundred— _stars_ , you’re old.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “Old and lonely.”

Clint reaches over and takes his hand. “Hey,” he says. “You got me.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re leaving,” he says tonelessly.

“I don’t have to.”

The words slip out without permission, but they’re out, and Clint can’t take them back. Doesn’t even want to, really. So he just waits, and holds his breath, and prays to every star out there that _something_ happens.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asks. “You—why don’t you have to?”

Clint shrugs. “I don’t really have anywhere to go,” he says. “I’m—I’m just a smuggler, Bucky. I don’t do anything important. I just...steal things.”

“You brought medicine to people.”

“I got paid for it,” Clint says. “It was a job.”

“It was a job you almost got arrested for. One you didn’t _have_ to do.”

“I did have to,” Clint says. “They were dying—I’m an asshole, but I’m not _that_ much of one—why are you laughing at me?”

“You helped people in need and you think it wasn’t worth anything?” Bucky’s smiling, even as he blinks away the shine of tears in his eyes. “Why don’t we ask someone from that colony what it was worth to them?”

“Okay, fine. One good thing against all the shit I’ve done. It’s—it doesn’t matter, anyway. The point is, no one will miss me if I stay.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand. “Look, honestly, the drive pod’s been good to go for a few days. The rest of what we’ve been doing is just general maintenance. I was just stretching out the time, because I didn’t want to leave. He rubs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if it’s this place, or if it’s you, or something else, or what. But I want to stay. I want to be with you. If you’ll let me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just lets Clint play with his hand while he stares into the fading sunlight as it dips below the horizon, lighting the purple ocean up like an amethyst.

“Okay,” he finally says.

“Okay...” Clint echoes.

“Okay, you can stay.” Bucky smiles at him, and even though it’s tinged with sadness, Clint can see the joy underneath it. “I want you to stay with me. I’d like that.”

Clint grins at him. “Good,” he says, a sense of contentment settling in his chest and stealing all his other words away. “I—good.”

They smile at each other for a moment, and then the wind blows, sending a chill wafting over Clint. “Cold,” he says, shivering. “Can we go in?”

Bucky kicks some dirt over the embers, and stands up, pulling Clint behind him. Clint expects him to shift back to drakkon form like he usually does, but he doesn’t. Instead, he tugs Clint over to the moss bed and stands there, looking...apprehensive, almost. Like he wants to say something, but isn’t sure where to start.

“Spit it out,” Clint finally says.

Bucky jumps a little, like the sound of Clint’s voice startled him. “I...” he starts, and then he leans forward and kisses Clint.

It’s unexpected, and shocking, and kind of clumsy in a way that Clint’s not really used to. He makes a short noise of surprise and pulls back, stepping away. “Uh...”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I just—” He blushes a little, and it’s kind of endearing. “I thought maybe—” He lets out a long breath. “The way you’ve been looking at me—”

“You’re easy to look at,” Clint says, and Bucky snorts. “I was just surprised, that’s all. I can—you can kiss me. You can kiss me all you want.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “I was planning on doing that. A lot.”

“That wasn’t your first kiss, was it?” Clint asks, suddenly thinking about how he’d said he was alone for five-hundred years. Because if it was—

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m old, I’m not _dead_.”

“But you said you didn’t talk to people—”

“Not usually. Sometimes I do. Depends on if I think I can trust them or not.” He shrugs. “So no, it’s not my first kiss. This isn’t my first anything.” He grins suddenly at Clint, startling him into returning it. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t a good one,” Clint admits. “And I was going to feel a little guilty about it.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky says. “My first kiss was almost five-hundred years ago in an underground jail cell. Anything else compared to that is...perfect.” He tugs Clint a little closer. “We can try again, though. If you want.”

“Works for me,” Clint says, and pulls Bucky into a second kiss. This one is _much_ better, hot and heavy and a little desperate. Clint’s hands come around Bucky, sliding all over his bare skin, feeling the warmth of it. Bucky runs so hot, even in human form, and Clint loves it.

His hand drops a little lower, and he palms over Bucky’s ass, hesitating slightly. “Do you want—is this okay?”

“You can touch me all you want,” Bucky says a little breathlessly, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “Can I?”

Clint nods and reaches for it, intending to yank it off over his head, but Bucky beats him to it. He flicks his hand up, fingers flashing into claws, and slashes through the fabric with one quick movement before shoving it off Clint’s shoulders, letting it flutter the ground.

“Oh,” Clint says, knees suddenly a little weak. “I—oh, _shit_ —”

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, looking a little embarrassed. “That was—”

“That was fringing _amazing_ ,” Clint interrupts. “That was—I don’t even—” He kisses Bucky again, sliding a hand into his hair and tugging on it.

“You liked that?” Bucky asks, dropping his voice lower. He puts his hands on Clint’s hips, and spins them, shoving Clint up against the cave wall. It’s like that first day all over again, when he’d pinned Clint to the ship, and it’s just as hot as he thought it might be then. Bucky presses his thigh against Clint’s growing erection, still trapped in his pants. “Answer me.” He kisses his way down Clint’s neck, mouthing over his pulse, scraping at it with his teeth.

“Yeah,” Clint gasps out, thinking about fangs. “Yeah— _hell_ —are you gonna bite me?”

“You want me to?” Bucky asks, lifting his head. He smiles at Clint with a smile that’s just a little too sharp, a little too full of teeth, and eyes that are a little too blue. “I can, if you want.”

“Yes,” Clint says. “I—holy _fringing_ —yes, do that.”

Bucky chuckles, a low sound that zips right up Clint’s spine and makes him shudder. Then he lowers his head back to Clint’s neck and _bites_. Not enough to break skin, but enough to send a sharp flash of pain through him, enough to leave a bruise, enough that Clint’s going to be feeling it for a day or two. He moans, long and wanton, and his knees wobble to the point that Bucky has to prop him up. “Trying to get away?”

Clint shakes his head frantically, words a little beyond him at the moment. He doesn’t want to get away. Doesn’t want to be anywhere except here in this moment with Bucky pressing him against the wall, boxing him in, keeping him safe.

“Not goin’ anywhere,” he manages, and turns his head, offering the other side of his neck. Bucky’s eyes flash with desire and he immediately jumps on it, sucking a matching bruise onto the skin. Clint moans again and wraps his arms around Bucky, pulling him in closer.

“Got too many clothes on,” Bucky murmurs, tongue flicking around Clint’s earlobe before he pulls it into his mouth in a move that should _not_ be sexy but somehow totally is.

“So do somethin’ about it,” Clint says, making it a challenge.

Bucky smirks against his jaw, then slides his hand around Clint’s neck, pressing into one of the bruises with his thumb. It sends a short shock of pain through Clint, edged with arousal and danger, and only serves to ramp him up higher. He hasn’t been this desperate since he was a fringing teenager, young and stupid and wracked with hormones. Stars, he _thought_ he’d learned patience since then, but apparently not—

Bucky’s other hand morphs into a claw, and he drags it down Clint’s chest, just the right side of painful, enough to leave marks. He pauses at Clint’s pants before sliding a single claw just barely into the waistband, smirking a little at the whimper it drags out of Clint. He’s not—he’s not _afraid_ , he knows Bucky wouldn’t hurt him, but there’s a sense of danger thrumming through him, making everything sharper, more imminent.

The smirk gets wider, and Bucky pulls his hand in a sharp motion. Clint gasps a little, adrenaline blasting through him, but all that happens is the button on his pants pops off, bouncing across the dirt floor, and Clint just about comes in his pants right there. He’s never been so turned on in his _life_ , this is going to fringing _kill_ him—

“Better,” Bucky murmurs in his ear, pushing the pants down to Clint’s knees before wrapping a—thankfully human—hand around his cock and pumping it slowly. “Humans and your clothes.”

“Overrated,” Clint agrees, hips jolting forward into his touch. “Useless.”

“Exactly,” Bucky says. He steps back a tiny bit, enough so that he can see properly, and rakes his eyes up and down Clint’s body with an appreciative gaze. Clint does the same. Bucky’s handsome as hell, Clint’s definitely noticed, but now he can _appreciate_ it. Enjoy it, rather than make do with sideways glances and trying to pretend he’s not looking.

“Fringing perfect,” he announces.

“Could say the same,” Bucky says, eyes on his face. “Lose the pants. Come to bed.”

The orders are sharp and strong, and Clint scrambles to obey, ditching his pants over by the ruined remains of his shirt before crawling onto the moss, right over Bucky, touching as much as he can on the way up. “Hi,” he says, bracing himself on his elbows above Bucky’s face.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Hello,” he says, all formal, then hooks a leg over Clint and flips them, quick as thought, pressing Clint down into the soft moss. “Hold still.”

“Not good at that,” Clint says, grinding up against him. “Wanna touch you.”

“Mmm.” Bucky leans down and kisses him instead, pressing them together, and Clint gasps at the feeling. “Hold still,” he repeats, then moves downward, leaving a trail of biting kisses as he goes. He pauses to mouth over Clint’s nipple, sucking it into his mouth before flicking his eyes up to Clint and nibbling around it, just enough to make Clint arch into his mouth with a string of muttered curses. He gives the other the same treatment before he moves lower, until he’s hovering over Clint’s dick.

“Don’t bite that,” Clint says, because there’s a line between danger and insanity and he knows what side he wants to stay on. Bucky lets out a low chuckle and drags his tongue over the head, pulling a gasp out of Clint.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.

“Just makin’ sure.”

Bucky flashes him a wicked smile, then takes Clint into his mouth, working him in short, quick motions, bringing him to the edge in an embarrassingly short time. Clint chokes on his own breath as Bucky does something _infernal_ with his tongue, laughing around him at the punched-out sound Clint makes in response. “I like hearing you,” he says, rubbing his thumb at the sensitive spot under the head. “Like watching you, too.”

“ _Ah_ ,” is about all Clint can say in response. His hands are clenching on the soft moss, and his toes are curling, and he can practically taste his orgasm, close and—

Bucky stops, and Clint chokes again, writhing underneath him as he crawls back up Clint’s body, leaving marks everywhere his mouth touches. _Gonna be covered in bruises tomorrow_ , he thinks wildly, and the thought just makes him even more hot. “Please,” he says, although he has no idea what he’s asking for. He reaches for Bucky, pulling him closer, letting the heat ground him back to reality. “Just—touch me—”

“I’m here,” Bucky says, slotting himself right against Clint, and the sensation of his cock pressing against Clint’s makes him gasp again, thrusting up into the brief flash of pleasure. Bucky groans at the movement, and Clint does it again, languid, lazy movements that are more about the feeling than chasing an end goal. He drinks in every hitched breath, every flutter of Bucky’s eyelashes, the hypnotizing way his eyes flicker between colors the closer he gets to the edge.

Clint pushes at him, rolling them both onto their sides where he can hitch a leg over Bucky’s hip and pull him even closer. He kisses Bucky, a slow exploration of his mouth even as he keeps moving, rolling his own hips in gentle motions. “Feel so good,” he murmurs into Bucky’s mouth, sucking on his lower lip before biting at it, a soft press of his teeth that draws a stuttering breath out of Bucky. “So good, I want—”

“Shhh,” Bucky says, soothing a hand over his back. “Easy.” He puts a hand on Clint’s leg and tugs until there’s no space between them anymore, until he’s the only thing that Clint can see. He tucks his head against Clint’s neck and drags his tongue over the bruise on his neck, the nerves flaring with a sharp kind of pain that makes Clint whimper. At the same time, his hand grips tighter and he pulls Clint into a deeper thrust, rocking into him a little harder—

“ _Ah—_ ” Clint says again, blinking tears out of his eyes as he comes over both of them, digging his fingernails into Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky—”

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes as he comes too, rocking into Clint as he rides it out, slowly rolling his hips. He shudders, a deep thing that rocks his whole body, then rubs a hand over Clint’s spine, the heat of it like a brand against his skin. “Shh,” he murmurs again, and Clint goes boneless against him, warm and sated and happy.

They lay there like that for a long time. Long enough for Clint to be half-asleep by the time Bucky presses a kiss to Clint’s forehead before rolling away, sitting up enough to grab something. Then there’s the rasp of cloth over his skin, cleaning up the mess from both of them. Clint manages to crack an eye open at that, and lets out a tiny groan. “Aw, shirt, no.”

“Ruined anyway,” Bucky mutters, tossing it to the side. He smiles at Clint, a lazy thing, before sliding himself along Clint’s back and wrapping a protective arm over his chest. “C’mere.”

“Aren’t you gonna change?” Clint mumbles sleepily.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Bucky says. “You want me to?”

“No,” Clint says, tangling their fingers together. “Like you the way you are.”

Bucky snorts. “Go to sleep,” he orders softly, and Clint smiles, already drifting off.

* * *

He is covered in bruises and little love bites the next morning, something that makes him happy. These are _good_ marks, rather than ones from walking into a door, or from busting his way out of a jail cell or something. He prods at them in the morning sunlight, looking over his shoulder as Bucky leans against the cave wall and watches him. “See something you like?”

“I do,” is all Bucky says, a soft smile on his face. Clint’s sure his own answering grin looks dopey as hell, but he doesn’t care. “C’mere.”

He holds out a hand and Clint goes to him. Bucky examines the canvas of his body, tracing over the reddish-purple marks with enjoyment. “Looks good on you,” he says.

“Yeah it does,” Clint agrees, leaning against him.

They stand there for a while, watching the sun rise over the ocean, bathing the island in warm light. Bucky wraps an arm around Clint’s waist and props his chin onto Clint’s shoulder. “So,” he eventually says, and Clint hums in acknowledgement. “Ship’s fixed.”

“Sure is.”

“What else do you wanna do?”

Clint puts his hand on Bucky’s arm. “Can think of one thing I’d like to do.”

Bucky snorts. “Something else, Clint. I’m six-hundred years old. I can’t be doing that _all_ the time.”

Clint sighs. “Worth a shot.” He tips his head to the side, gently bumping it against Bucky’s. “I don’t know. What do you usually do?”

“Hunt. Sit up here. Fly around and check out the islands, make sure the dragons are doing okay; sometimes the cythrauls attack their nests. I sleep a lot.”

“Really?” Clint absently draws patterns on his arm. “You’ve been sleeping pretty regular with me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, but he doesn’t comment further on it.

Clint hides his smile. “Well. I wouldn’t mind seeing the rest of this place. Maybe check out the other islands. Hang out with the dragons. See if we can kill ourselves a night snake, have it for dinner.”

“They’re poisonous.”

“Ah. Well, we can skip that one.”

Bucky laughs softly and turns his head, biting at the bruise on Clint’s neck. He shudders a bit, going weak-kneed in Bucky’s grasp with a little moan. Bucky’s arm tightens around him, holding him up. “Won’t be exciting,” he says. “Staying with me. Not a lot happens here.”

“I’ve been on adventures,” Clint says, wrangling his voice under control. “I’m good with just sitting for a while. Let some of the heat on me fade.” He grins. “I’ve got a price on my head.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Bucky says dryly.

Clint snickers. “I really am good with that, though,” he says, turning to face Bucky. “Just being with you. Figuring this out. Breathing.”

“I like the sound of that.” Bucky tugs him down into a kiss. “Wanna go see the dragons, then?”

“Breakfast first,” Clint says, because he’s hungry, and Bucky nods against him before taking a couple steps away and transforming into the giant red drakkon.

He holds out a clawed foot, and Clint steps into it, grabbing at the scales that curve around him.

“Don’t drop me,” he says, because he says that every morning.

And just like every morning, Bucky huffs in amusement, the sound seeming to say _you idiot._ But now there’s a fond look in his eye, and he drops his head down to nudge Clint’s before launching them off the side of the cliff.

* * *

The days take on a pattern again. Except instead of fixing the ship, they do other things. Explore the islands. Spend time with the dragons. Clean out the cavern with the waterfall, clearing away some of the vines. Bucky pulls _The Avenger_ free from the cave and Clint teaches him how to fly it. He’s pretty sure SILAS likes Bucky more than him—as far as a computer can like anyone—because he’s actually helpful instead of just being a dick half the time.

Clint loses track of the days. They slide by like he’s in a dream, like they’re in their own little bubble of time here. It’s not until he thinks to ask SILAS one day that he realizes it’s been almost half a year since he crashed here, which is just...insane.

“Why?” Bucky asks when Clint mentions it to him that night as they’re both coming down from a pretty intense orgasm. They’ve been experimenting more, trying some different things. Sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes it does.

Sometimes, like tonight, it _really_ does. He’s going to be feeling _that_ one for a day or so. 

Clint sits up and stretches, admiring the marks around his wrist from Bucky holding him down. He probes at them with his fingers, then says, “I don’t know.” He laughs. “Thirty years and a hundred planets, and this is the first place I’ve ever wanted to stick around. You realize what a big moment this is for me?”

“Good,” Bucky says after a moment. He smiles, long and slow. “It’s because the stories are true, you know.”

Clint tilts his head. “What stories?”

“You told me your name,” Bucky says. He lowers his voice. “ _Clinton Francis Barton_. I own your soul now.”

Clint winces at the middle name. “Only for the next six months,” he says, poking Bucky’s chest. “Then I’m free and clear to go.” Bucky’s eyes flash with a brief concern, and Clint pokes him again. “I’m not _going_ to,” he says. “I’m not that callous.” He reaches over and takes Bucky’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of his hand. “Besides, I think you’ve got my heart. That’s much more permanent.”

Bucky grins at him, the worry gone from his face, and twists his hand to squeeze Clint’s. “Good,” he says, rolling onto his back. “Glad to hear it.”

“I have been thinking, though,” Clint says. He hesitates a moment, then says, “About you being the only drakkon.”

Bucky turns his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Clint bites his lip, then says, “Hydra was dismantled almost five-hundred years ago, and they were replaced with a thing called SHIELD. They’re mostly defense and security for the core planets, but they have a science and tech division, called Stark Industries, and I know the guy who runs it.” He gestures to the outside. “I, uh...I stole _The Avenger_ from him. And SILAS.”

“Of course you did,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes, but the words are fond. “Where are you going with this?”

“SHIELD would have records,” Clint says. “Of what Hydra was doing. I could talk to Stark, use him as a backdoor into SHIELD. We could see if...if anyone survived.”

Bucky stiffens. “They’re dead,” he says. “They have to be. I can’t hear them.” He points at his head. “They’re gone, Clint.”

“Or you’re too far away,” Clint counters, and he blinks. “Look. You all were on the same planet, and then in the same facility, basically. Proximity, right? But when you left, you went _far_. Maybe they’re not dead. Maybe it’s just a matter of...distance.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling for a long time. Long enough that Clint decides to just consider the matter dropped, and he settles onto the moss a little distance away. He’s almost half-asleep by the time Bucky finally reaches out an arm, pulling him into his chest. “You really think so?” he asks. “You think...they might be alive?”

“I don’t know,” Clint murmurs. “But it might be worth a try?”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then says, “But that means I _left_ them there. For five-hundred years.”

Clint flips over to face him. “We’re not going down that road,” he says firmly. “You were a kid, Buck. They told you to go, and you went. What were you gonna do, storm the facility by yourself? You would’ve ended up right back there.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “I guess,” he says eventually, still sounding broken.

Clint rubs a hand over his arm. “It’s just an idea,” he says. “We don’t have to go. I was—it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No!” Bucky’s eyes go wide. “No, I want to. I do. We should go.” He starts to get up, and Clint wraps an arm around him, tugging him back down.

“Not tonight,” he says. “I don’t fancy trying to fight off a cythraul while trying to get _The Avenger_ started up. Sleep on it, and if you still want to go in the morning, we’ll start making plans for it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, sounding only half-convinced.

“I promise,” Clint says. “Whatever you want. If you want to go, I’ll go with you. If you want to stay, then I’ll stay with you. Whatever you decide, you’re not gonna do it alone, got it?” Bucky nods, and Clint pulls him closer, tangling their legs together. “You got me,” he murmurs. “I _promise_.”

“Got me too,” Bucky whispers into his skin, the words reverent like a prayer. “Think I love you.”

“Love you too,” Clint murmurs, and smiles when he says it.

* * *

It’s a week later by the time they’re ready to leave. Bucky stands in the cockpit of _The Avenger,_ looking some mixture of nervous and excited and terrified. Clint drops the last of their supplies in the tiny galley, then makes his way up the stairs and wraps an arm around his waist. “This is gonna be awesome,” he says. “Can’t wait to show you _my_ world.”

Bucky nods, expression unchanging.

“And no matter what we find,” Clint adds, “I’m here for you. Whatever happens out there, we’re doing it together. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bucky says, and kisses him before sitting in the copilot chair, strapping himself in.

Clint gets in the other one and flicks the switches, bringing the ship to life. “SILAS,” he says, and the computer hums on. “You ready to fly?”

“Nothing would bring me greater joy, sir. Engines are optimal and ready to go.”

“Fuel?”

“Enough to break atmosphere. We will need to stop shortly. And I do believe you promised to buy an energy shield for the ship as well.”

Clint snorts. “Forgot about that.”

“I am happy to remind you, sir, as many times as you need.”

“Oh, _joy_.”

Bucky laughs. “This is going to be fun,” he says, grinning at Clint.

“I’ll say,” Clint sighs, stabbing at the controls. Then he grabs the column and looks over. “You ready?”

“Let’s do it,” Bucky says. He reaches out to take Clint’s other hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Together?”

“Together,” Clint confirms, and he launches the ship towards the distant stars.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


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